


Before I Sleep

by idoltina



Series: Nightminds [4]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Gen, Implied Evil Queen | Regina Mills/Robin Hood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-30 17:55:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11468676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idoltina/pseuds/idoltina
Summary: Prompt fill foroutlaw believer + called.Less than a week into Robin’s recovery, the boys come home for their week at Mifflin Street. Their most recent clash with Blue, however, weighs heavily on Henry’s mind, and Robin is surprised to find that there is much, much more behind Henry’s sullen silence than he’d expected. Or, Henry confronts Robin about his use of the s-word.-----Friday, August 22, 2014.





	Before I Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** very mild allusions to previous assault, attempted murder, and hospitalization
> 
> The full Nightminds Calendar can be found [here](http://idoltina.tumblr.com/post/149427108550/nightminds-verse-full-calendar).

It’s late — close to midnight, he thinks — when he pulls the door of the nursery just shy of shut behind him and steps out onto the upper landing. He shouldn’t be up and about still, he _knows_ he shouldn’t be, knows that the longer he stays up, the more he pushes himself to move and walk and stretch, the worse his episode will be tonight. It hasn’t even been a week, yet, has barely been more than two days since Doctor Whale had felt even remotely comfortable releasing him from the hospital, but thus far there seems to be a pattern emerging in Robin’s recovery. And Rumplestiltskin — Gold had stressed that it would take time for him to heal properly, that he’d still feel the lingering effects of his injuries for a while yet, and painful does not even _begin_ to cover the sheer torture that is reliving what Blue had done to him this past Sunday.

But Robin has been cooped up for days on end at this point, confined to bed with minimal stretching and walking around, Regina refusing to let him do all that much on his own, and to be frank, it’s been driving Robin a little mad. He knows he needs the rest, knows he shouldn’t overexert himself for at least a handful of days more, but it’s Friday, which means the boys had come today for the week. And… given the events of Sunday, he’d wanted to be close to them.

One can hardly blame him.

So he’d braved the stairs today, gripping the banister all the while, Regina spot-watching him a few steps in front _just in case_ , she’d said, and it’d taken every bit of self-restraint he had to grit his teeth and bite his tongue and not make a remark about her hypocritical hovering.

(The anguish in her eyes when she’d pulled him into her arms on Sunday is still _burned_ onto his eyelids, and he's found his patience less tried than usual.)

He’d barely been in the foyer a few minutes before the front door swung open and Roland’s arms were flung tight around his legs, startling the breath out of him. And it had been Roland, in the end, who ended up on the receiving end of most of Robin’s attention tonight: paying rapt attention to every recollection of an outing or adventure or spot of trouble with his son’s dog; sorting through the pile of books Roland had brought with him and picking out selections for bedtime (an extra two tonight, Robin promised, if only to garner more time); sneaking out into the backyard to lie on the grass and do a little stargazing.

By the time Liara had woken up around 11:30, both boys were in their rooms, and Robin had practically jumped at the sound of their daughter’s cries through the monitor in order to be out of bed a little longer. And Regina had let him (he thinks she’s put the pieces together, has seen it in her eyes), but he could tell she was still wary, nervous and on edge even as she’d settled back against the pillows and watched him leave. He expects she’ll still be awake when he returns, would expect nothing less, and there is so much _ache_ in their longing, fear forming fractured fragments along the tie that binds.

Now that Liara has been soothed and settled with a soft kiss dropped upon her crown, though, Robin has precious little other reason to stay up and about any longer, so it’s with a tired sigh and a dull ache in his back (he’s overdone it, he knows, he’ll pay for it in a few hours, he’s sure) that he moves away from the nursery door and starts to head back toward their bedroom. He pauses halfway through a step, though, when light catches his peripheral vision and pulls his gaze across the landing toward Henry’s room. The door’s just slightly ajar, the light spilling through the crack a dim, soft yellow. Robin frowns, brow wrinkling a little, and with little more than half a moment’s pause, he redirects his path back across the landing.

Gently, he raps on the door with his knuckles, careful to keep his voice low. “Henry?” he murmurs. “You still up?” An equally quiet _yeah_ answers him, and Robin takes it for the permission it is and slowly pushes the door open, poking his head inside. It’s the side lamp on the nightstand that’s still on, low and unobtrusive, but he can’t quite fathom why it’s on at all. Henry isn’t reading or writing or anything of the sort; he’s merely sitting up, back against the headboard, knees bent and blanket draped over his legs as he gazes idly out the window. “Is something wrong?”

Henry shakes his head, the movement almost imperceptible in the low light, but he still doesn’t shift his gaze over to Robin. “Can’t sleep.”

Robin worries his lip between his teeth and leans against the doorjamb, contemplating. Emma had told Regina has much, the other day, conveying concerns over Henry’s lack of both sleep and speech. The latter had been obvious to them the minute Henry walked through the door this afternoon; he’d hardly said two words to them, barely spoke more than two sentences at a time all night, his smile never quite reaching his eyes. Regina’s mulling it over now, Robin knows, is picking her way through nearly fourteen (thirteen, if they’re technical, but a year apart had not made her any less his mother) years of memories to try and suss out the best way to get Henry to come round and open up a bit.

“Doesn’t it ever drive you crazy?” Henry prompts, startling Robin out of his reverie. He’s still looking out the window, but his attention has shifted in the last moment or two. “Whenever Mom gets pulled into some mess involving magic, doesn’t it ever bother you that you’re being left out of things? That you can’t help? That you can’t do anything _useful_?”

Something in Robin… settles, at that, the corner of his lips quirking up with the beginnings of a smile. “All the bloody time,” he huffs, chuckling a bit.

Henry, however, doesn’t find his answer all that humorous, if the wrinkle of his brow is anything to go by. “How do you deal with it?”

Robin softens a little, considering him for a half moment before pushing away from the doorjamb and taking a few steps into the room toward the bed. “Well,” he sighs, “I try not to just… let that frustration sit with me for too long. I look for ways to channel the energy — to find a way I _can_ be useful, instead.”

“Okay, Archie,” he mumbles, earning him a low and admonishing _Henry_ as Robin sinks down gently onto the bed next to him. Henry huffs indignantly, folds his arms over his chest and slumps a bit against his pillows but that’s about as far as his acquiescence will go, and it’s at times like these that Robin remembers Henry is just weeks shy of fourteen. Robin works his jaw a bit, palm anchored flat against the mattress as he tries to figure out how to go about this, but Henry speaks again after a long beat, bitterness lacing his tone. “At least you can actually do something without magic, though,” he mutters, gaze still trained out the window. “All I’ve got is a heart someone wants to rip out of my chest.”

At that, Robin falters, stomach flipping unpleasantly as Sunday comes back to him in flashes: Roland’s arms around Henry’s waist; the gentle quiver of Henry’s chin as he’d tried, failed to keep his voice steady; the crooked curl of Blue’s fingers as she’d reached for him, ready to claw, rip, tear, crush and no, _no_.

Robin sucks in a breath and blinks once, twice, feels the dull ache in his back start to twist, coil at the base of his spine. Without thinking he reaches out, searching for a silver lining (Henry is _alive_ , his heart’s still beating), and it’s a very near thing that he doesn’t actually brush his fingertips along Henry’s arm in an effort to soothe. “Henry, that heart,” he says, “is the entire reason you did what you did on Sunday. You were ready to lay down your life to protect someone else. Believe me, I understand what that’s like.”

“No, you don’t,” Henry snaps, and Robin’s fingers curl away reflexively, not wanting to push too hard. “This is my family and I —“ Henry’s mouth clamps shut, jaw tense as he finally tears his gaze away from the window. Still, he doesn’t meet Robin’s eyes, not yet, but his arms go slack where they’ve been folded, fingers reaching out to toy with a loose thread on his blanket. “Look, I’m not — I’m not saying it’s not yours,” Henry sighs, “but it’s my family. It’s _always_ been my family people go after and I’m not — I won’t lose —”

Again, Henry clams up, but Robin hears the words unspoken anyway and _there_ it is. “I know,” Robin says quietly, and god, how he does, far more than he’d ever want to but it’s there, between them, a tie that binds. “And that — that must sound so _hollow_ to you, Henry, but I’d hope that with what you know of my stories, with everything that’s happened in the last year? You’ll believe me when I say that sacrifice is at… the center of _many_ a session your mother and I have had with Doctor Hopper.”

Henry’s hand stills, thread pinched between his fingers, and in spite of everything Robin can see the corner of his mouth twitch up just… slightly. “She’s pissed at you, isn’t she?” Henry guesses, and he’s trying, rather unsuccessfully Robin thinks, not to sound like he’s making light of it. “For what you did on Sunday?”

“Truthfully, I think Blue’s the one who’ll incur all of your mother’s wrath,” Robin offers. It works; Henry’s shoulders relax a little, muscles not quite so tense. “Regina’s… concerned,” he admits, and even where her hovering had grated on his nerves Robin begins to yearn for it now, the warmth of her magic and the reassurance of her love carried on whispered words. “But it comes from a good place. I’ve been trying to remember that most of the week.”

Henry nods in acknowledgement but it’s almost imperceptible, lost as a ghost fogs over his eyes. There’s… more, there, underneath the helplessness and the anger and the fear, but Robin can’t quite discern what it is just yet, and perhaps… he should leave it, for the time being. If the last year of building and sharing a life with Regina has taught Robin anything it’s that timing matters so much _more_ with a heart at stake, and Henry stands at the precipice of being a traitor to his own, beating still and golden in his chest.

Still, Robin has come this far, and there’s already so _much_ out in the open, weight and shadow and monsters in the mirror. He takes a moment to mull over his options, mind tracing the thread of the conversation back to the beginning, and it’s there he chooses to concentrate his efforts — to take Henry’s lead, and follow it.

He’s slower to rise from the bed than he thought he’d be, muscles in his back spasming just slightly at the sudden shift in position. Robin sucks in a breath as quietly as he can and tries not to let his discomfort show, too-aware of Henry’s eyes following him as he gets to his feet and rounds the corner of the bed. He stops just behind the chair at Henry’s desk, resists the temptation to grip the back for purchase and reaches out instead for the large, leather-bound book tucked into the far corner of the desk.

It feels heavier in his hands than before but those are his injuries talking, he’s sure, skewing his perception even as magic mends every last damaged nerve. Grasping the edges tight, Robin turns back toward the bed and makes for the opposite side closest to the window. “Somewhere in here,” he says, setting the storybook down ahead of him and flinching slightly at the way it falls too-quick and clumsily from his fingers, “there’s bound to be at least one story about Reul Ghorm, yes?”

Henry doesn’t reach for the book but his eyes are only on Robin now, watching, observing as Robin settles down onto the bed once more. It may be futile, he thinks, to try and hide the ebb and flow of tonight’s flare-up from Henry, but it’s better now that Robin’s sitting again, pain not so acute. “You know there is.”

Robin _hmm_ s in reply, reaches out to trace over the lettering along the front cover, the gold lining the edges. “I’d imagine then,” he ventures, “that there’s a great many books you could rifle through — in the library, or you mother’s vault, or your grandfather’s shop — that may have some more.”

When Robin looks up at him again there is such derisive judgement in Henry’s eyes, his expression that reminds him so _much_ of Regina, and for a moment Robin nearly forgets that they are not, actually, of the same blood. “Seriously?” Henry deadpans, leveling him with a look. “That’s your suggestion — that I do research? That’s supposed to make me feel useful?”

Robin’s jaw jumps a bit, patience tried only a little and god, this boy is every bit his mother’s son. “I think Belle would take serious offense to that, you know.”

“It’s not the same thing,” Henry argues, and it’s here his gaze falters once more, dropping to the book as he reaches out and picks idly at the corners. “Belle’s _had_ the chance to take real action — to be a hero.”

Again Robin withdraws his hand, but this time it’s away from the book and all of its flawed dichotomies. “I’m aware,” he says, low and a bit dull, his hand ghosting over the spot along his ribs where a whip had left its mark behind. “I’d have been tortured to death without her kindness, remember?”

He’s… quiet at that, Henry, his silence tinged with an air of sheepishness or shame, but there are no traces of it in his expression when Robin lifts his gaze to meet Henry’s again. There’s something almost… thoughtful in the way Henry looks at him, curious and contemplating as he considers his next words. “And yet you still want me to hit the books.”

It’s not quite what Robin had been anticipating, is almost enough to make him laugh, actually, but he bites it back in favor of trying to reinforce his point. “They give us information we might not possess, otherwise. Those aren’t just stories in your book, you know,” he reasons, nodding toward the book resting between them. “Anything you can find might be of service somehow, might give us some insight into a weakness, a loophole, _something_. It’s how your grandmother and I were able to use arrows to our advantage, remember? We’d never have gotten close enough to Blue if not for —”

“— the potion Grandpa and Belle found in that old book of his, yeah, I know.”

Again, Henry lapses into silence, nails still tracing back and forth along the corner of the cover. Robin chews his lip a bit as he contemplates a better approach. He’d thought it would help a little, honestly, the reminder that each of them has played a part in progressing, piecing their way toward a hard-earned victory. Belle’s participation, in particular, has done more than Robin could ever repay: she, along with Emma, Rum — Gold, all the others, had made crucial contributions in keeping Regina alive, back in March. The fact that she’d agreed to work _with_ her former husband in order to help hadn’t escaped anyone’s notice over the last several months.

Still, it’s not enough, doesn’t quite land or pull at the right threads in Henry’s heart. For a moment Robin can only watch him while his mind works, the grainy grating of nail against leather grinding against his ear as Henry traces — no, not traces. He’s picking, Robin realizes, searching for a weak spot at the corner where paper might come loose enough for him to dig his nail under. He’s fidgeting through the fog, absent and idle but his finger moves faster with each passing second, nail digging against the book a little harder on each pass and his breath grows quicker, more shallow in tandem with every scratch — 

This time when Robin reaches out it’s equal parts thoughtless and intentional, his hand enclosing gently over Henry’s to still his movement and encourage his breathing to come back to calm, center. “Henry, I know how frustrating it is to feel like you’ve been sidelined, _especially_ after Sunday. But what you tried to do to protect Roland?” he says, careful to keep his voice gentle, earnest. “That _was_ heroic, and noble, and _brave_. And you would not have been half so brave if not for your heart.”

Tension _bleeds_ out of Henry’s body — Robin can feel it even without the point of contact — and there is something altogether aching in his eyes as he meets Robin’s gaze dead on. “He’s my brother,” Henry murmurs, voice breaking just a touch as he blinks, fights against what Robin thinks _might_ be tears stinging at his eyes. “I wasn’t going to let her hurt him.”

Warmth blossoms in Robin’s chest, spreads out and seeps into his spine, a balm against the pain that eats away at every frayed nerve ending. “Seems like we’re on the same page then.” Henry smiles, faintly but it’s there, and Robin cannot find it in him to be all that bothered when Henry withdraws his hand. “Why don’t you try and get some sleep?” Robin suggests, fingers drumming lightly atop the book. “We can all have breakfast together in the morning, and then you can start looking through this with fresh eyes.”

There’s a fair amount of skepticism in Henry’s expression as he regards the book, uncertainty in his eyes, but there’s also something far more… trusting than Robin was anticipating, even in the way he sighs in resignation. Once again Robin is reminded that this boy is fast approaching fourteen, is really not much of a boy anymore, but he _is_ , still, full of faith and good intentions and not nearly as hardened by his experiences as Robin was at this age. “I’ll… try,” Henry agrees eventually, and even without much enthusiasm the reply is enough to give Robin hope, for tomorrow.

Robin is the one to pick up the book and deposit it back on the desk, but he leaves the nightstand lamp to Henry; sleep will come to him when he’s ready. The pain in Robin’s back has receded back to a dull ache at the base of his spine, doesn’t alter his posture or gait as he makes his way to the door. Still, he can feel it spreading, a slow burn snaking through his muscles into his neck and shoulders. His episode will probably be much worse tonight, when he wakes in a few hours, and it might not be a bad idea to swallow his pride a bit and ask Regina to work out some of the knots now, before they succumb to sleep.

“Robin?”

He pauses, just at the threshold of the door, and grips the frame for extra purchase. Robin glances over his shoulder and arches his eyebrows in silent expectation. Henry… hesitates, opens his mouth and then closes it again, clearly reconsidering whatever he’d wanted to say. But for the first time since Robin entered the room he finds Henry’s gaze steady, unwavering even as he musters up the wherewithal to get the words out. “On Sunday,” he ventures, “when you came to rescue us, you — you told her to stay the hell away from your sons.” A beat, and then, “You called me your son.”

Robin’s heart picks up pace, just a bit, but there’s no rising flare of anxiety behind it, no rushing urgency to let words tumble forth to mount a defense. Henry looks a touch uncomfortable, shifts slightly on the bed but still he doesn’t look away. “I did.”

It’s a mere two words, the simplest of responses but it’s enough for Henry, encouragement where he needs it to keep going. “Did you mean that?” he asks, voice soft and low, but there’s something almost… earnest in it, a pleading not to make too much of a fuss over it.

In so many ways, Henry is still very much just a boy.

This calls for a lighter touch, Robin thinks, something that doesn’t quite reflect the gravity of what Henry’s asking — what it means, for them, and their family. So it’s with a measured breath that Robin offers him a small smile and replies, “With all my heart.”

Almost instantly, Henry’s entire demeanor changes, eyes rolling as he scoffs and shuffles down under the blankets properly. “God, your jokes are as bad as Mom’s.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Robin muses, chuckling as he leans against the doorjamb and folds his arms over his chest. “I think hers are rather… charming.”

It’s like striking gold: Henry groans, pointed and loud, turns and buries his face in his pillow just enough to muffle his words a bit. “You two were made for each other.”

“Yeah, I think we were,” Robin agrees, and though his mind doesn’t stray from the conversation at hand, his fingers drift, trace over the ink sewn into his skin, around the curve where he is waiting, still, for his love to safely slide a band in place. He circles the spot once, twice, the image of opal nestled in gold against Regina’s hand flashing briefly across his mind’s eyes.

All at once Robin remembers where it had come from, trips and stumbles back down the line toward the title he has come to bear, and the decision to strip it from a man who did absolutely nothing to deserve it. “It doesn’t have to work the other way around, you know,” he says, the words spilling forth before he can fully think them through. But he can’t help it, can’t help the way he pulls strength from the fire in his bones and remembers who he is first, above all else, the skin he wears most comfortably when nothing else feels quite right. “I don’t expect you to call me —” 

“I know,” Henry says, lifting his face from the pillow slightly to meet Robin’s eyes again. And it’s gentle, kind, soft around the edges, but there’s an air of finality in his tone as well, drawing a line in the sand at least for the rest of the night. Another beat of quiet, and then, around a slight yawn, “D’you think Mom’ll be up for making crepes in the morning?”

“I'd say it's more than likely,” Robin chuckles, “but I'll see what I can do.”

“Thanks,” Henry mumbles, hand reaching out to flick off the nightstand lamp. “Night, Robin.”

And that's his cue to bow out, pull the door to again and let Henry drift off properly, but even as Henry’s eyes flutter shut Robin finds himself unable to look away, rooted in place and hand glued to the doorknob to grant him purchase in place. Not for the first time today Robin’s mind drifts to Sunday, the memory twisting into an infernal what-if: Roland stumbling, sobbing through the woods alone; Henry lying limp and lifeless against the earth, chest carved into carnage at Blue’s hands and no, _no_.

His legs tremble, jolt in place as he fights against stepping back into the room, resists temptation to move back to the bed and push the hair from Henry’s eyes to reassure himself. Slowly, Robin forces himself to draw in a deeper, more measured breath, holds, releases. He doesn’t have to search for a silver lining when it’s right in front of him, a heart golden and still beating inside of a boy — a young man who reminds Robin _daily_ what it means to believe. Eight months, they’ve been at battle, been beaten and bruised and bled dry — Robin’s body has been broken beyond belief — and still each of them stands, moving forward one step at a time.

His body is mending: it’s slow, agonizing and exceedingly painful but it _is_ mending, and Robin’s family, his daughter, sweet precious thing she is, and his sons — his _son_ is still alive.

With every passing minute things continue to get better, and the heart of the truest believer beats on.

On the upstairs landing, the antique grandfather clock chimes twelve, low and resonant, and Robin releases his grip on the handle, ready to stand on his own. “Good night, Henry.”


End file.
